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the hands of his own patriot son, preeminent for wisdom and virtue. The men of other days, their companions and their friends, had passed away; and new generations had risen up to call them blessed. Their labors were finished; the number of their days was full; they had lived long enough for themselves, for their country, and mankind. It only remained to them that their last prayer should be answered in the wonderful, we may almost be permitted to say the miraculous, coincidences of their departure, which have given new interest to a day which was before above all days of political celebration. They passed indeed through the valley of the shadow of death, but it was lighted up by the brightness of their own day of jubilee. Their spirits arose upon the songs of joy and the prayers of gratitude of millions whom they had made free; and, had the prophet lent his "chariot of fire" and his "horses of fire," their ascent could hardly have been more glorious.

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Our country has been sometimes reproached for not erecting monuments and statues to her departed worthies. But what avails the monument of brass and stone? Sink its foundation deep, raise it as high as human ken, -when the rolling years press on, it falls; they sweep over it, and leave not a trace of its gloomy grandeur. Erect the statue of marble, it is cold and lifeless; Time clasps it, and it becomes dust in his hands. But the patriot statesmen and philanthropists, like those whom we this day commemorate; who have been the instruments of Providence in adding to the numbers and happiness of the human race; who have peopled and gladdened new regions,have their memorials every where. Their statues are meņ living, feeling, intelligent, adoring men, bearing the image of their Maker, having the impress of Divinity. These shall endure, by constant succession, through countless ages, and, vigorous in the embrace of Time, become more and more abundant. Their monuments are the everlasting hills, which they have clothed with verdure. Their praises are sounds of health and joy in vallevs which they have made fruitful. To

them incense daily rises, in the perfumes of fragrant fields which they have spread with cultivation. Fair cities proclaim their glory; gorgeous mansions speak their munificence. Their names are inscribed on the goodly habitations of men, and on those hallowed temples of God whose spires ever point to the neaven which, we trust, has received them.

CLVIII.-A PARENTAL ODE TO MY INFANT SON.

HOOD.

[THOMAS HOOD was born in London in 1798, and died in 1845. He was destined for commercial pursuits, and at an early age was placed in a counting house in his native city. Being of a delicate constitution, his health began to fail; and at the age of fifteen he was sent to Dundee, in Scotland, to reside with some relatives. Here he lived for two years; reading much in a desultory way, and gaining strength, by rambling, fishing, and boating. Upon his return to London, he devoted himself for some time to the art of engraving, and thus acquired that knowledge of drawing which he afterwards turned to good account in the humorous pictorial illustrations with which many of his works were accompanied. But his tastes were strongly literary; and at the age of twenty-three he embraced the profession of letters, and began to earn his bread by his pen. His life was one of severe toil, and, from his delicate health and sensitive temperament, of much suffering, always sustained, however, with manly resolution and a cheerful spirit. He wrote much both in prose and verse. His works consist for the most part, of collected contributions to magazines and periodicals. His novel of Tylney Hall was not very successful. His Whims and Oddities, of which threo volumes were published, and his Hood's Own, are the most popular of his writings. Up the Rhine is the narrative of an imaginary tour in Germany by a family party. Whimsicalities is a collection of his contributions to the New Monthly Magazine, of which he was at one time the editor. At the time of his death he was conducting a periodical called Hood's Magazine, in which some of his best pieces appeared.

Hood was a man of peculiar and original genius, which manifested itself with equal power and ease in humor and pathos. He was a very accurate observer of life and manners. His wit is revealed by a boundless profusion of the quaintest, oddest, and most unexpected combinations; and his humor is marked alike by richness and deliсасу. As a punster, he stands without a rival. No one else has given so much expres sion and character to this inferior form of wit. His serious productions are mostly in the form of verse, and are remarkable for sweetness and tenderness of feeling, exquisite fancy, and finely chosen language. A few of them, such as The Dream of Eugene Aram, The Song of the Shirt, The Bridge of Sighs, have great power and pathos. In many of his poems the sportive and serious elements are most happily blended. A Retrospective Review is a case in point.]

THOU happy, happy elf!

(But stop-first let me kiss away that tear)

Thou tiny image of myself!

(My love, he's poking peas into his ear) — Thou merry, laughing sprite !

With spirits feather light,

Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin (Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin)

Thou little tricksy Puck!

With antic toys so funnily bestuck,

Light as the singing bird that wings the air, (The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!) Thou darling of thy sire!

(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!)

Thou imp of mirth and joy!

In love's dear chain so strong and bright a link,
Thou idol of thy parents-(stop the boy!
There goes my ink!)

Thou cherub-but of earth!

Fit playfellow for fays by moonlight pale,
In harmless sport and mirth,

(The dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!)

Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey
From every blossom in the world that blows,
Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny,
(Another tumble-that's his precious nose !)
Thy father's pride and hope!

(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) With pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint, (Where did he learn that squint?)

Thou young domestic love!

(He'll have that jug off with another shove!)

Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest!

(Are those torn clothes his best?)
Little epitome of man!

(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!)
Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life,
(He's got a knife!)

Thou enviable being!

No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,
Play on, play on,

My elfin John !

Toss the light ball-bestride the stick,

(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)
With fancies buoyant as the thistle down,
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,
With many a lamb-like frisk,

(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)

Thou pretty opening rose !

(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose !)
Balmy, and breathing music like the south,

(He really brings my heart into my mouth!)
Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,
(I wish that window had an iron bar!)
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove-
(I'll tell you what, my love,

I cannot write unless he's sent above!)

CLIX. THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.

HOOD.

[This remarkable piece of poetry appeared in the London Punch, only a short time before the lamented death of the author. It was writtten at a time when the attention of benevolent persons in London had been awakened to the inadequate wages paid to poor needlewomen, and their consequent distress; and from the seasonableness of its appearance, as well as its high literary merit, it produced a great effect. It is valuable, as an expression of that deep and impassioned sympathy with suffering, which was a leading trait in Hood's nature, and forms an attractive element in his writings.]

WITH fingers weary and worn,

With eyelids heavy and red,

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And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch, She sang the "Song of the Shirt!"

"Work! work! work!

While the cock is crowing aloof!

And work work ·

work!

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